Dark Towers: A Gothic Fairytale
by Mycenaean Queen
Summary: A dark medieval fantasy. Nigel is the last surviving son of a vanquished monarch. Derek Lloyd is the Captain of the Guard charged with making sure that he is killed, quickly and quietly. However, an unlikely bond forms between them. AU, mm friendship.


**I do not own Relic Hunter. The characters are property of Firework Entertainment.**

**AU, Angst, H/C, darkfic, friendship.Warning: this story contains violence and implies a M/M relationship, although it is ****not**** explicitly sexual. **

**PLEASE DO NOT READ IF THIS DISTURBS YOU.**

Dark Towers: A Gothic Fairytale

By Mycenaean Queen

The Captain of the Guard's boots trod heavily on the spiral staircase; the steel caps on his toes and heels tolled a dull clunk against the stone. As he climbed higher up the castle tower, he caught glimpses of the grey world beyond the slim arrow slits that provided the only light apart from the occasional, flaming wall-torches. He saw a ruined, desperate city beyond the crumbling walls of a besieged and defeated castle. He also noticed it was snowing outside.

Captain Derek shuddered. He hated the snow, and he was cold and tired. The icy dampness had penetrated to his very bones, making every old battle-wound on his world-weary body ache as if it were freshly stricken. The weight of his thick chain-mail armour and the heavy broadsword that hung from his belt, which he usually wore so lightly, dragged his posture into an uncharacteristic hunch. If he'd had any emotion left within him, he thought dryly, he would have been sick of this life, sick of conquering, sick of plunder, sick of death. But now, destruction was all he had left: his remaining life-blood.

Even so, his orders, direct from his victorious commander - the newly proclaimed Emperor - made him feel more than usually empty inside.

'The line of the Wilderland monarchs is destroyed, their legend shattered – yet the people of the vanquished kingdom will not be pacified until all symbols of their hope are lost. Indeed, the public execution of their King and his heir only incited them to rebel! This must come to an end – but there is still one more: the younger son, Prince Nigel. I leave it to you to dispose of him. Take him to the dungeon, do it quietly in whatever fashion pleases you, and destroy the body. The word will be given that he died of the fever – and then the hope is dead.'

At the recollection of the exact words, Derek snorted detachedly. '_Whatever fashion pleases you_.'

Is that what he'd become? Once a proud warrior, but now no more than a man who took pleasure in slaughter? Yes, he'd stood by and watched his army, their swords and spears flying like the Devil's thunderbolts, cut down the rebels. He'd even turned a blind eye as they ran into houses, and had their way with the woman – took whoever and whatever they pleased. And now he was about to walk into the chamber of an unarmed boy and cut his throat.

'He's probably a spoilt brat,' he told himself, and chuckled again.

It occurred to Derek he had no idea how old the prince was, anyway. The elder son had been of age, several years over twenty-one indeed, so this one was unlikely to be a babe.

'It's irrelevant,' he muttered, his mind as monotonic as his voice. 'I will carry out my order, and then I can rest…' He laughed again. Of course, he never slept peacefully, not with the screams of so many obliterated souls ripping through his dreams.

So why waste a thought on one more?

At length, the Captain reached the top of the staircase. Here, he found a single wooden door, framed with a pointed arch, attended by a very tired-looking guard, with thinning ginger hair and a patch crudely fitted over a missing eye. A blanket was bundled over his armour, keeping the icy air at bay. He grasped a half-full ale-jug in one hand.

At the sight of the Captain, usually a stickler for discipline, the guard jumped to his feet, shod his illegal encumbrances and appropriated a more soldierly, straight-backed stance.

'At ease,' mumbled the Captain, with a dismissive gesture of his hand. 'Is the prisoner awake?'

'Yes, Captain,' replied the guard. 'At least he was last time I looked in.'

'When was that, man?'

'Err, some time after the call came for midday.'

The castle-cryer had called four o' clock not long before Derek entered the tower, just before the snows had began to fall. He sighed heavily: 'So you've no idea?'

The Guard shrugged. 'Last guard was a little more…interested in 'im, if you know what I mean.' He winked knowingly, but Derek's expression remained as blank as calm water. 'He's quiet enough, though, poor boy. He…uh, I reckon he knew you were coming soon, Captain. Well, not _you _to be precise, of course, but he guessed _it _were comin'…'

Derek swiped his hand in a dismissive gesture. 'Very good. You can go now.'

'What? Go all together?'

'I think I can handle this alone, don't you?' Derek shot the guard such a vicious look that he nearly tripped backwards over the wooden stall.

'Oh, um, yes, Captain. Thank you, sir.' He handed over the key, and then picked up the blanket and ale-jug. The ginger haired-man was about to begin his long descent, when he suddenly paused, catching Derek's attention even as the Captain silently slipped the key into the lock.

'I don't wish to be bold, Captain,' he mumbled. 'But…but make it quick. He was so…err, polite, I suppose the word for it is, Sir. I felt sort of sorry for…'

'You're dismissed, man!' Derek spat the words with such hushed force that the guard momentarily tottered on the edge of the stairs, his eyes wide, as if he was being pushed over a precipice. He then scuttled off into the gloom.

Derek turned the key in the lock and opened the door, just an inch, as quietly as he could.

It was very dark in the cell. There was no window, and the only light came from a single and rather feeble candle, that was propped in a niche in the wall. But it was not the only object in the narrow niche. Huddled with his knees up in front of him, and apparently reading a book by only its dim illumination, was Prince Nigel.

He was obviously so absorbed in his studies he had not heard the voices in the corridor – or maybe they had been drowned out by the wind that was moaning like banshees through the rafters above them. But when Derek pushed the door just a tiny bit further open, the torch-light from the corridor caught the prince's attention, and he looked up.

Derek grabbed the torch in one hand and flung the door wide at the same instant the prisoner scrambled to his feet. The book tumbled to the ground, lost in his fluster rather than by carelessness; the little candle also toppled and went out.

The Captain said nothing as he took a step forward, holding the torch ahead of him so he could regard his prey. With a soldier's eye, he immediately noticed he couldn't see the boy's left arm – he kept it hidden behind his back. Derek doubted he had a concealed weapon or, even if he did have, that he could effectively wield it against him. He made a mental note, all the same.

He was rewarded with the undiluted attention of a pair of vivid green-hazel eyes. They peered up at him from under a shock of slightly unruly chestnut hair that lolled over the boy's forehead.

He _was _a boy, very slightly built and blessed with delicately-sculpted features and a full, well-formed mouth. He was maybe an inch or two shorter that the captain who, despite his brute strength, was not of the greatest stature. Yet it was a little hard to tell exactly how old he was. At first glance, to Derek's chagrin, the Prince appeared little more than sixteen years of age. As he scrutinized him further, however, he detected an indefinable air of maturity - bolstered by the firmness of his bottom lip and the tremulous dignity with which he held up his chin, despite the sheer, unguarded terror in his eyes.

He was dressed like a prince too – or, at least, in an outfit once fit for one. His leggings appeared to be of the finest, soft, black suede, and his jacket was a dark blue velvet, it's cuffs once hewn of spotless white lace. Now, however, it was shredded to reveal a thin, whitish shirt underneath and glimpses of even paler flesh – both splashed with fine specks of blood. His feet were bare.

In this second moment of assessment, Derek decided he was maybe twenty, perhaps even a little older. Did that make the task easier?

No.

Despite the struggle of his own willpower, Derek found himself interestedly scanning the boy up and down. 'What', he thought miserably, 'had made him so tired, mad and sick as to believe that, after the relentless clamour of violence his life had become, _this_ was the most beautiful and fragile being he had ever seen?'

The prince spoke first, as Derek slotted the torch into a halter on the wall, not taking his eyes off his charge for a second.

'So…you've come for me?'

Derek grunted an affirmation.

'Will it be quick?' The second question was asked in a softer tone, as the boy's eyes flittered towards the ground.

'It depends.' Derek cursed his cruelty, even as he uttered the words. 'Will you come quietly?'

'My…my father died with dignity, I'm sure of that…so…' His words trailed off; Nigel bit his bottom lip.

'Aye, he did,' replied Derek, wondering now at the unfamiliar note of kindness in his own voice. 'You'd do well to die like him.'

Nigel snatched an uneven breath, nodding rapidly. 'I'll…I'll try…will it be here?'

'No, I'm taking you…somewhere else. It won't be public…just you and me.'

'I see…I'm…I'm glad of that…'

Even as Nigel answered, however, Derek grabbed him suddenly, one hand clamping down on his shoulder, the other wrenching his left arm out from behind his back. The boy gave a guttural cry of pain that disarmed even the experienced Captain.

Rather than the ill-concealed dagger he had half suspected, Derek stared down at a trembling, empty hand, which he grasped hard around the wrist. It was smeared thick with blood. The sleeve of his jacket, too, was a dark, browning shade of scarlet, and torn from shoulder to elbow. Beneath he could see that strips of shirt had been used to craft a make-shift bandage – one that had not done much to stay the flow of blood.

'Please…' gasped Nigel, his eyes moistening as he fought the stiflingly anguish caused by the rough treatment.

Wordlessly Derek let go, instead catching Nigel under his shoulder as the boy's legs gave way beneath him. He then lowered him gently to the floor. Nigel hugged his injured arm to him, his head resting back on the Captain's chest whose supporting arms enveloped him. Nigel shut his eyes and swallowed hard. Derek thought for a moment he had fainted, then sensed that he had not.

'Did nobody treat this wound?' he asked his voice still low and gruff.

'No,' replied Nigel, his words increasingly subdued and broken. 'It…it's hardly worthwhile…'

'Is that why you concealed it?'

'I thought you might…beat me there…'

'Why would I do that?' snapped Derek, even as the truth shouted in his face. The guard had said his predecessor had been 'interested' in Nigel. Anger surged inside of him. Had his own people really left this poor wretch no last day of dignity, but tormented him and his injuries even further? He glanced down at the blood on Nigel's shirt and wondered if all came from this single slash, and what else he had suffered.

His anger, however, manifested itself in a way most alien to the Captain of the Guard. Supporting the boy with a single arm, he found himself lifting a hand to Nigel's brow, and gently sweeping the soft hair from where it hung limply over his eyes.

'It's alright,' he whispered, discerning the nervous racing of Nigel's heartbeat as he pulled his body closer against his own. 'I won't let them hurt you any more. Nobody will ever hurt you again.'

'Except me,' he thought, his blankness returning. 'Except me.'

**Constructive criticism and reviews appreciated. No flames please.**


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